"Bingo," he said softly, and checked his watch one last time. A hair over two minutes. Not bad.
He circumvented the broken glass at the door, stepped out onto the small landing, and was halfway down the four steps when he was suddenly caught in the crossbeams of several powerful flashlights.
"Don't move, George," came the authoritative but almost friendly voice of Peter Bullis. "You are officially busted. Keep your hands where we can see them."
* * *
Sammie Martens stumbled and dropped the bag of fast food she was carrying next to the trash can by the edge of the parking lot. Swearing audibly, she stooped to retrieve it, collected a small cell phone from behind the can as well-deposited there minutes earlier by Lester Spinney-and hid it in her palm. She then moved to her car, slid in behind the wheel, pretended to reach into her jacket pocket, and flipped the cell open.
It was the same make and model as the one she regularly carried, and the one both Rivera and Manuel knew she used to make business calls. Except that since it was a different phone altogether, there would be no record of the call she was about to make.
Gunther picked up on the first ring.
"It's me," she said.
"Who's this?" was all he said, which was their code for her to confirm she was safe and alone.
"Gatekeeper."
"How're you doing, Sam?" His voice was concerned but relaxed. This was one of their scheduled calls, attempted daily unless circumstances ruled otherwise.
"Good. Our first shipment'll arrive in a few hours. The driveway camera should catch the couriers in case they don't come inside, but I'll try to be the affable hostess. Won't be much-a bundle or two. Rivera's making it a test run. They're optimistic, though. Manuel's digging a cache in the cellar so we can build a stockpile and streamline the supply-and-demand surges. That'll probably be our maximal way to knock out the competition."
Joe smiled at the terminology. She was so much in character, she wasn't distinguishing between him and the people she was conning. He wondered if someone who was truly in legitimate sales wouldn't laugh at her jargon.
No matter-it only needed to work on a select few.
"Too bad we didn't put a camera down there," he said.
She was nonchalant. "That's why you have me. Too dark, anyhow."
"You having any luck identifying who's playing what side of the fence in the Rutland trade?" Gunther asked.
Here she was more equivocal. "Some. Manuel owned up to Hollowell being more than just a local rep-he was their main man, meaning his death caused more damage than I thought. Rivera's so full of bluster, I figured he had a deeper network locally, like he has elsewhere. Still, I'm keying in on some of the obvious movers. Everyone's lying low right now-lot of hinkiness left over from the murder, nobody knowing who did it. Should make our entrance into the market good, though, since that also means people're hungry. Still, bullshitting Rivera and making this happen as advertised might be tough."
"Maybe not," Joe told her. "Peter Bullis just busted a kid-George Backer, calls himself the Schemer, like out of a Batman movie. He's a B-and-E expert-has probably knocked off a couple of hundred homes-but he claims he only goes after bad guys, or at least people who won't report they've been ripped off. Bullis caught him last night with some coke he'd lifted from somebody's freezer in less time than it would take you to unload groceries. The thing is, he's supposedly a walking telephone book-names, addresses. Knows who's buying what from whom, where, and when, all so he can rip them off when they're not at home. Bullis busted him to see if he could help you out. The kid's not especially into heroin-Ecstasy floats his boat-but he trades and sells everything he doesn't use himself. Anyhow, we thought you'd like his mental black book, since he seems so keen to cooperate."
"The Schemer, huh?" Sam reacted. "Sounds like that's what we should call Peter from now on. Tell him thanks from me."
"Will do. I'll get something to you as soon as we strike a deal and he coughs it up. How're you getting along with Manuel?"
"So far, so good."
Gunther paused, a warning to watch herself there on the tip of his tongue, but then he thought better of it. "All right. Good luck tonight."
"Roger that, boss," she said, and hung up, snapping the cell phone closed. She then ate her hamburger, put the phone into the crumpled bag, walked back to the trash can, and dropped the wadded ball not into, but next to, the can, as if missing by mistake.
Sliding in behind the wheel again, all her cautions notwithstanding, she was caught totally by surprise. As her hand touched the ignition key, a voice from the back seat ordered, "Don't do it, Sam."
She jumped as if electrified but kept staring straight ahead. "Willy, what the hell're you doing here? You'll blow my cover."
"Not likely," he sneered. "Your cover's so pathetic, there's nothing left to blow."
"What's that mean?" she asked, feeling suddenly hotter than was comfortable.
"I'm here, aren't I?"
Her tension eased a notch. "That's not proof of anything. You know who Greta Novak is, for Christ's sake, and you know who all the cops are. You probably tailed Spinney here and saw him drop off the cell."
He ignored her. "You're in danger, Sam. This was set up too fast and without enough safeties in place. One wrong twitch by anybody and you're dead."
"What kind of twitch?" she asked, trying not to move her lips in case anyone was watching. "Like some idiot crawling into my back seat just to see the mess he can put me in? Get out of the car, Willy, and get out of Rutland. You're the one who's going to screw me up here."
"You need to quit this," he said again, but they both understood there was nothing he could do that wouldn't also jeopardize her career, something for which he knew she'd never forgive him.
"Get out. Now."
Without a word further, he slipped out the door facing the battered shrubbery alongside the car, closing it behind him with barely a click.
Sam took a deep breath, turned the key, and drove back to the house, parking in the garage beside the Hulk. As she emerged from the car, she saw Manuel standing in the doorway leading to the kitchen.
"What took you?" he asked.
She held up another bag with a burger in it. "I got hungry, so I ate mine in the parking lot."
He took the bag from her and peered at its contents as they entered the house. "This stuff is shit. We're not going to do this forever, right?"
She cut him a quick look, her Greta Novak character back in place more slowly than usual after her encounter with Willy. "I'm not cooking, if that's what you mean."
But he stopped her. "I'll do the cooking. We just need some groceries."
She stared at him. "You're a cook? What? Mac and cheese? This crap at least has meat in it." She pointed at the bag in his hand.
He laughed. "No. Not mac and cheese. Maybe chicharrones de polio or habichuelas rositas. You like beans and rice? Good for the system."
"I like tuna from a can."
He shook his head and reached inside the bag, removing the wrapped burger and gazing at it a moment as though it were a fallen meteorite, which in a day it would probably resemble.
"You don't want it, I'll eat it," she offered.
He shifted it beyond her reach, although she'd made no move for it. "I don't like it, but I gotta live. Besides, you already had yours. My God, you eat a lot for a little one."
She'd bolted her meal right out of the bag in the car, as she tended to in any case, but Manuel rummaged around the kitchen cabinets-the place had come furnished after a fashion, including some bulletproof china-and found a plate onto which he almost delicately arranged his burger before moving it and himself to the battered wooden table by the window